The tale of the Scorpion
by Pajaros en la cabeza
Summary: Translation of my fanfic with the same name. Just a Batjokes (Batman/Joker) drabble, a guilty pleasure of mine. K plus for violence.


**_**BATMAN**_****** DOES NOT BELONG TO ME, BUT TO DC COMICS (A CREATION BY BOB KANE AND BILL FINGER)****

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"Why did you do it?"

When I landed in front of you I saw you tremble, but I know it was not because of you being soaked and exposed to the cold. There are people who think you are not moved by the elements. No, it was due to my presence. You did not shake in fear. But excitement. Seeing how wet I found you with rainwater, I dare to asume you were waiting in that alley, just three blocks away from the crimescene.

Tonight you've killed eight people in a pub. It was not even a sleazy bar, one of those where a criminal feels like home. No, it was a simple place where those who earn their daily bread with a lot of sacrifices invest a few dollars in having fun for a while, cloud their senses with a Good liquor and feel human contact, because life is difficult enough to deprive oneself of a whim when they have the chance. Did you come in there because you too believed you deserved a drink after escaping Arkham once again? Or were you thirsty for blood? They say you used pieces of the bottle of whiskey you were served to cut necks and stab hearts and backs.

You still have a big piece of glass stained with blood in your hand, you hold on to it. Your eyes tell me you're thinking of stabbing me in the throat with it.

"I told you last time. I told you to stay in Arkham."

I keep exploring your eyes, trying to find a sense in what you have just done. Since your kills are often a way to achieve a purpose and not a simple entertainment—not always. The more I look at you the more it seems to me that you have actually done it without thinking. That blank stare, crazy. You went to drink whiskey and, it happens, you ended up killing those in your way.

It seems like you're always smiling but your lips start forming a genuine smile. I hear a giggle going up your throat.

"Why did you do it?"

I already know the answer. We both know.

"The tale of the scorpion and the frog" you reply, shrugging.

Still with that smile in your lips, you approach your fingers stained with blood to mine, my only crack of humanity. You stain them, I can taste the blood of some unfortunate person. Then the fingers caress my chin and go down to my throat. You still think of stabbing me with the cristal, right? Sometimes your eyes are like two Windows—just sometimes.

I feel your nail scratching the suit. Yes, you are thinking of cutting me open like a fish. You have done it before. You could do it again.

You look at me to the eyes. You too try to get into my head through them. You are ruminating on it. The forg and the scorpion thing. I see you like the analogy you've found to your situation. Our situation. 'Why did you do it?', the frog asks the scorpion, feeling how the poison takes hold of its body and it sank in the water, taking the scorpion with it, 'now both of us will die'.

And the scorpion, with its sting still in hand, smiling like a naughty boy, replies: 'I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself. It's my nature."

You did it so I came. It was a call.

I would love to bite that finger off.

Tonight I think more than ever about those who tell me I should have killed you long ago. That you should have been the exception to my rule. With your death, they say, so many lives would have been saved.

But I know that's what you want.

That's why you've brought me here again.

Because you want to see me. You want to test me. You want to see how far can I go. To which point I will defend my principles.

Defending the right to live of an scorpion who can only prick.

Keeping an emotional distance from what I swore to extirpate from Gotham.

Once more, you come closer and your lips make contact with mine.

They taste like blood too.

Your teeth bite my under lip. I know you'd tear it and eat it. Your hands are on my hips. I know you're still holding that piece of glass, near my kidneys. It is not the first time this happens and it won't be the last. As you said once, we are doomed to do this for all eternity.

I place my hands on your arms, holding you, as I Kiss you. A way of feeling you. And to keep you under control as well. I know you want it. Me letting down my guard.

I know you wouldn't kill me either. It is a game of domination. Of identities. Exposing the man under the bat. Or something similar.

There are times when I would like to see under the makeup in your face.

...Maybe...You just missed this.

And it is now when you notice my intentions, when it is your mask the one which is falling, and your teeth clench on my lip, preparing yourself to rip up without actually doing it. But a thread of blood runs down the corner of my mouth.

Despite it all, I am still glued to you and I won't let you go again. You will be back to Arkham. I wish I could say this time I'll make sure you stay there as long as the court told you you should stay.

I keep returning your kisses. Not Joker's. Yours. Arthur. Jack. John. Whatever was the name you were born with and you don't remember or don't want to reveal to those who have tried to treat you. I keep kissing you as my hands press your arms, surely leaving you some bruises. A reminder from me, just like tomorrow when I wake up in the **morning I will find a wound in my lips which will make me think of you. I suppose that is how we work. With stings.**

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**THE END**


End file.
